The irritated CIA chief looked at the folder in Duncan’s hands. “You have this all worked out, don’t you?”

Duncan handed him the folder. “Every detail.”

“Of course,” Boucher said, laying the folder open on the coffee table between the two men. He sifted through the pages. Each page represented a separate step in the president’s plan. E-mails to be faked. Documents to be forged. Databases to be altered. CIA stuff. All of it damning evidence that Duncan had knowingly ignored credible threats against the Siletz Reservation and Fort Bragg, that he had grossly underestimated the reach of their enemies, and that he had purposely provoked their wrath with the hopes of expanding the war on terror via the invasion of the countries responsible. Essentially, everything Marrs claimed to be true but wasn’t. The documents would reveal that Duncan did all of it despite strong opposition from Boucher, who had saved e-mails, recorded phone calls, and kept tabs on the president’s poor choices. The world would blame Duncan for more than three thousand five hundred American lives lost.

Boucher was integral to this plan. Duncan couldn’t do it without him.

The last few pages interested Boucher the most. He picked them up, reading each page in detail. Duncan saw him nod a few times. He was beginning to see the big picture.

Boucher finished reading and put the pages back into the folder. He sat back, crossing his legs. “This might work.”

“It will work.”

“It’s a huge sacrifice.”

Duncan nodded.

“Everyone will believe the things Marrs has been saying.”

Duncan shrugged. “It wouldn’t be possible without Marrs.”

“It could land him in this office in the next election.”

“We’ll worry about that later. What’s important is that we bury the truth deeper than any future president would think to dig.”

Boucher smiled. “I’ll break out my shovel.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

FIFTY-FOUR

El Mirador, Guatemala

BEFORE THE BASE of the sacrificial pit reached the top, two things happened. The mismatched living skeletons began scaling the rough walls, eager to attack. And Ridley disappeared within the writhing mass of white spindly limbs. While many climbed the walls, scores more were still forming below.

Not wanting any of the undead golems to reach the top of the pit, Queen, Bishop, and Knight opened fire. Sparks filled the air as bullets pierced brittle bones and struck stone. As limbs shattered and fell away, several of the skeletons toppled down, but whatever remained intact merged with loose bones below and rejoined the fight. All the while, the stone floor brought the horde closer.

“We can’t stop them,” Knight said as he reloaded.

“If we can subdue Ridley, maybe we can—”